


Broken Mirror

by Sidiwasfc



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidiwasfc/pseuds/Sidiwasfc
Summary: Leonard's ruminations after returning from the Mirror Universe. Can be read as TOS, but written with AOS in mind. Written to help with the writers own healing process.





	Broken Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this almost ten years ago when ST:09 had just been released, and I was raped/assaulted by a then friend. I wrote this as a way to process my feelings and emotions. I am fine now, but wanted to share. If other chapters are posted then they will most certainly diverge from the initial purpose.

 

Linguistically, Doctor McCoy found the language that surrounded the situation problematic. He shakily thought about asking Lt. Uhura on her thoughts, but he knew that would raise questions. As if this stint in the Mirror Universe didn’t raise enough questions.

....To say that one had taken advantage of another implies that there was an opportunity left open by the acted-upon—a way in. Like one was ‘asking” for it, an open question.

To be honest, the phrase made him feel dirty.

Where did this leave him? Where did he fit in knowing that he had some underlying interest in Spock in a physical and romantic sense? Where did it leave him knowing that his physical response had hung in a conflicted state of panic stricken revulsion, a sense of safety seeking numb-out-of-body-holy-shit-what-is-going-on, and some primal, base want that pushed him into some deep well of was this what I think it was or am I making it into something else altogether.

Is it how I’m defining it? How I define it may shift my perception. He desperately did not want to define it in a way that made him the ‘victim’, but he knew that in order to remove himself from that state of powerlessness and into some position of relative power would mean he’d have to emphasize the painfully base pleasure that his nerve endings received from this “altercation”.

That definition disgusted him, just as much as the former working definition had scared him.

So far, ignoring the physical and outward expressions of the incident seemed the most effective method of coping. Claiming that the sickbay was a tad chill assured that his sleeves could remain long; preemptively updating med files and crewperson checkups gave him a good excuse when asked why he stayed in his safe office. Quick efficient showers and changes of clothes kept him from ruminating on the bruises and the sharp unexpected scratches that curved from his spine to the bottom side of his ribcage marking his desperate attempt at escape.

He distinctly wondered about his assailant’s reaction to the red human blood that undoubtedly stained his nails a universe away.

He distantly wondered what it mattered.

He distinctly wondered what HE; his assailant defined the event as.

He didn’t care to ask why that mattered.

He wondered how much of the bluish purple colouring that stretched across where his neck and shoulder met was due to his natural pallor and how much was due to the rough uncaring selfish hands, lips, teeth, and tongue of another.

A remote musing on some recent technological advances in domestic and industrial replicators—where in items could be recycled back into the matter stream.

He wondered if he would be able to do that to the uniform that he had left in the bottom of the hamper—or would it bother him to know that the outfit of his shame would be spread about the ship in the form of tools, supplies and other scraps of civilization that made life on this tin can livable. He firmly decided against making any move on such thoughts or actions--the last thing he needed was for the floating high powered space tub he tentatively called home to be torn from his range of safety because of paranoia and shame.

Because in his mind--now that he was clean out of alcohol until the next starbase--he was.....hell, what was in his mind? He shook his head involuntarily, as if whatever was bothering him--memories, feelings, or the mix of emotions and abject numbness--would fall out of his ears like water after a too cold and too long swim he may have taken. Nothing tangible came from this action, but he was suddenly surprised to find himself sitting--or slouching rather--at the rarely used work desk that came standard in all crew and officer quarters. He never worked here. Hell, he had an office, a nice office--often times he forgot that there was more to his quarters than just a bed and a bathroom. He almost expected to find a layer of dust on the work surface.

He almost expected to see his thoughts written in the dust if it was there. He found nothing. So he cradled his head in the crook of his arms and drifted in and out of thought and sleep.


End file.
